Fake ID Read Online Free

mean it?
    The funeral people provided ‘light refreshments’ for what Mrs Donna called the wake. Weird! So quiet. The whispers guests made wouldn’t wake up any dead person. They thanked me for ‘the cuppa’ which I hadn’t organised. Offering curried egg or shaved ham (since when did pigs shave?) sandwiches saved me having to say important stuff like, ‘Did you know if my gran had another life?’
    Maybe someone there did know more about my gran, but I didn’t know who to ask or what to say. Besides, they treated me as the left-over grandkid, as if I were about six and feeling grown-up because I was allowed to hand around the sandwiches.
    â€˜Are we looking for an envelope?’ Luke opened the back door, which then slammed behind us.
    â€˜Probably.’ I had no idea. No labels on the keys. Not even colour tags or purple nail polish like I put on my second Hedge High locker key
    â€˜Or a computer file?’ suggested Luke. ‘That’s what I’d look for.’
    Since Gran went hi-tech only a few weeks ago, the will was more likely to be in a drawer. Anyway, it had to be witnessed and you couldn’t do that on a computer. I held up the keys. ‘Try the locked drawers first. Let’s see which keys fit.’
    Checking for important documents and valuables is normal after a death, Mrs Donna says, but it’s creepy going into an empty house, which still has a feel of the owner. I don’t believe in ghosts, but there’s still a sense of Gran about the place that’s really hard to describe. It’s not a smell, just a flavour of her clinging to the rooms. Her furniture. Her colours. Her mess. And a sense of her personality. I don’t mean a ghost or anything spooky, just her.
    For a moment, I wondered what I’d leave behind if I died. Would there be a sense of Zoe anywhere? Mum and I never lived in the same place long enough for any house or flat to be ‘infected’ or even affected by us. Even on the farm where we house-sat for the owners, we were very temporary and the owners’ belongings were still around.
    â€˜Sometimes old people hide jewellery under the mattress…or in the freezer,’ suggested Luke.
    â€˜Uncomfortable to sleep on, or wear!’ I say. ‘Cool!’
    Gran was
not
the world’s best housekeeper. I’d always liked that. She didn’t fuss. But that’s also why I had to live with Luke’s super-organised mum. Since Luke trained for the same club, that made the pick-ups and drop-offs easier. Very different women. While Luke’s mum recycled everything, fast, Gran was a bit of a hoarder. There were newspapers in piles. Old envelopes. I checked them all. Empty. And stacks of canvases against the walls of the hall, with one painting hanging.
    â€˜Hey, isn’t this the picture of you? The one where you had to sit still for hours?’ Luke called out.
    â€˜Twenty hours.’ That’s when I used to dream of playing hockey for Australia’s top women’s team to fill the time. I’d get the only goal in the final minute of the second half and everyone in the international crowd would cheer. I’d be on the TV sports channel. But all I got was eye-ache from having to stare at a corner of the room and not move. You wouldn’t think it was so hard to do nothing. Being an artist’s model was not for me, either. So I wouldn’t try and get work experience with an artist, especially a portrait painter. Been there, done that.
    The picture was crooked. You know how some people can’t bear crooked pictures? Luke is one of them. So he tries to fix it.
    Trying to balance, one foot on the sofa arm, Luke reached up towards the portrait, wobbled and accidentally knocked ‘me’ off the wall. Crash! The painting fell on its corner frame, which splintered just as Luke wobbled back the other way.
    â€˜Look out!’ Off balance, Luke put his foot heavily on